


But What About The Mouthfeel?

by kaixo (ballpoint), WhiteHaru37



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Podfic Available, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22598557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37
Summary: Marcelo and Alex are getting married. Alex insists on micromanaging everything, and as a result, some things slip through the cracks.
Relationships: Marcelo Melo/Alexander Zverev
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	But What About The Mouthfeel?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



> Itsadrizzit! This was written at the behest of WhiteHaru37 for ITPE! So sorry that I've just around to posting the story now, because life has been hectic.

**Amalfi coast, the eve of the wedding**

“Okay,” Marcelo breathed, practising his spiel on the balcony, like an actor memorizing lines of Shakespearian high drama. 

Alone, at 04:00 am in the morning, when even the ocean below seemed to be in peaceful slumber. 

Lights off, because he didn’t want to wake Alex, his eyes were drawn to the ocean and the scene of the lit buildings below, tumbling into the inky blackness of the ocean like jewellery on black velvet. 

“Remember when I told you to chill out, because everything will be okay, _xuxu_?” 

Yes, he told himself, that was good. His voice, steady, his eyes, calm. He knew his face, every expression, and how to school his features to get the best from Alex. 

This was the way to break the news. Gently, briskly, like sweeping up fine dust with a pan and a brush. A matter of fact. This will be no problemo, like Baby’s First Forehand Groundstroke. 

“Who needs Hugo Boss?” Marcelo gestured, did a little shimmy of his shoulders, as he warmed up to the subject, his voice stronger, louder. “It’s just me and you, and the people who matter. Who cares if you forgot to order the suits?”

“WHAT?” 

The expression cutting across Marcelo’s thoughts with the discordant notes of a record scratch. Normally, Alex didn’t shout. Too laid back, and yelling off the tennis court took up too much energy. 

Nonononono, Marcelo thought, the voice in his head sounding like stupid cat meme that littered the internet years ago. Probably if he didn’t turn around, Alex wouldn’t be there. Not yet. Probably - 

“I FORGOT TO DO WHAT?”

Marcelo froze, “Ehhh...”

“Turn around, bright eyes,” Alex ordered, and Marcelo did. Carefully, slowly, hands half way upwards to his chest. A way of saying, _I come in peace._

Marcelo did the most reluctant pirouette anyone ever did see, stopping to face Alex; hair held back from his face with an Alice band, torso bare, slipping bottoms perched on low on hips. 

“ _Every now and then I fall apart_ ,” Marcelo half sang, his voice dropping as he saw the expression on Alex’s face. He didn’t even pick up the next line. 

That was like, one of their favourite karaoke songs. 

“Not funny,” Alex repeated, eyes wide with panic as he turned on his heels towards the bed and swept his phone off the bedside table. 

Skimmed the excel file, mouth thinning into a line as the truth hit home. 

“We have no suits,” Alex sighed, his legs giving out from under him as he sat heavily at the edge of his bed. 

“Oh my God.”

**two weeks ago**

“You know,” Marcelo said, apropos of nothing, “I’m a doubles specialist.”

Alex raked a hand through his thick mop of hair, pulling a face as he held his hair in check. 

“Your status doesn’t help the fact that the hotel is _is now_ asking after dietary requirements,” he tossed out, dropping his head as he busied himself with the laptop perched on his lap, his fringe tumbling before his eyes and nose like a heavy curtain.

“As in, I believe in teamwork,” Marcelo explained, with his characteristic big gestures. He sauntered to and around the kitchen island, eyeing the treats under glass domes. The caterers had sent over samples of display treats, ranging from delicate tartlets starring as _hors d'oeuvres_ , to various cakes. “And I’m all about the spirit of co-operation and endeavour and --”

“You aren’t touching those cakes.”

“I’m _Brazilian_ ,” Marcelo exclaimed, voice filled with reproach. “We have cake for _breakfast_.”

“You’re also on tour,” Alex snapped, his fingers skittering across the keyboards making _clackity clack_ sounds. Knowing Alex, he was writing everything in _English_ and so quickly. Marcelo’s English was decent, but not enough to be writing letters back and forth to random people about this, that and the other. 

“A bit of cake for breakfast, with coffee,” Marcelo sighed, “and I can’t have any. You are _killing me_.” 

“I _could_ kill you,” Alex looked up, eyebrows raised, telegraphing the question before he asked it. “We have a system, remember?”

“I’m old enough to remember when I used to eat cake without thinking of... texture, colour, and _ehhh_...” Marcelo paused in mid grumble, pulling at his ear as he tried to remember the other thing Alex insisted on. “Hmmm...”

“ _Mouth feel_ ,” Alex looked up, snapping finger guns in his husband-to- be’s direction. “Say it after me.”

“No.”

“Melo...”

After _that look_ , you know, the one where Alex squints his eyes and his mouth drops open, as if ready to contest a call on court - yeah, _that one_ , Marcelo rolled his eyes. 

“Mouth feel,” he said. 

“Mouth feel,” Alex repeated. The glint in his eye telling Marcelo that it was on. 

“ _Mouth feel_ ” they choroused in perfect unison. 

The third time around, Marcelo said it faster. The fourth time, Alex joined in, beating Marcelo to the end of the word. 

“ _Mouth feel, mouth feel, mouth feel_ ” they sped the word up, like a chant, to see who would stumble first. Only breaking when Mischa stuck his head out from a door in the passage way. Ah, they must have woken him up. 

Whoops. 

“Guys?” Mischa asked, in that half tentative tone where he wasn’t sure what situation he’d find them in. 

The ONE time he stumbled upon their game, “Truth or Spin The Twister Bottle Dare” and found them naked and tangled in ribbons like kittens, he’d kept a steady, respectful distance. 

Never got over the trauma, he had said. But he’d been kind enough to cut the ribbons from their bodies with kitchen scissors though. Mischa had had the quickness of mind to do that. 

“Sorry,” Marcelo mouthed, because around them, Mischa was long suffering. 

Obviously not long suffering enough, as he walked down the short passageway and joined them in the living room slash kitchen slash dining room. All three of them stopping in Monaco before flying over to London soon enough for the year end finals. 

“So,” Mischa greeted, voice bright, “What kind of rap group are you starting up now? Mouth feel is a good lyric, but a bit...”

“Repetitive?” Marcelo smiled. 

“Perhaps,” Mischa drifted over the counter, sighted the cake, and helped himself to a portion, armed with tongs and a plate. 

A sharp “tut” from Alex as Mischa brought the cake to his lips. 

Mischa lifted an eyebrow, arrowed a disbelieving look in his brother’s direction. “Seriously, Sascha?”

At Alex’s pointed glare, he sighed, slipped his phone from his pocket. Put it on the counter. Tapped his screen open, and dutifully opened the document. Taking a bite of cake, he typed his responses into the Google doc. “Good mouth feel,” he spoke around the cake, mouth half full. 

“Flavour?”

“Erm...” Mischa half smacked and swallowed around the words. “Sicilian chocolate orange?”

“Perfect,” Alex pointed at his screen. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

***

The thing with tennis, it never stopped.

Marcelo loved the tennis life; the unceasing tours. It felt like being a nomad, but instead of camels and stopping by the odd oasis for replenishment, it was jumping on planes, and stopping for the odd tournament. 

“Easy for you to say,” Alex grumped, his face half pixelated on the phone screen. Yeah, so tennis in Germany- great. But not the internet. Because in Germany, sketchy internet was not a bug, but a feature. 

When Marcelo had shared his insights with Alex over vegan protein shakes a couple of months ago, Alex did that half affected shrug. “Bad internet makes us more efficient,” he would say.

Which... Marcelo didn’t believe, and besides, that’s not why he called. 

“Bad luck against Isner,” he said, voice warm with sympathy. 

Alex pouted. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Ale --”

“Don’t say it.”

“There are people who do these things,” Marcelo crooned. “People called wedding planners, who know the difference between frosting and fond... _ant_ ?” at Alex’s nod, he continued. “You know it isn’t important where we get married, as long as we’re married, right?”

Oh oh.

He knew the words were wrong as soon as they tripped off his lips. You didn’t tell a German that details didn’t _matter_. Alex’s eyes wide and round until you saw nothing but white and blue.

“It... isn’t important?”

“I’m a doubles specialist,” Marcelo blurted, his eyes following the phone screen that tumbled and spun as Alex got to his feet. A glimpse of thigh and torso. Before a wink of blue sky, the glare of the sun, and _boom_ back to his face. 

“Yes,” Alex agreed, his voice that distinctive cross between sarcasm and stoned that only he could do. “I think so.”

“I mean,” Marcelo continued, “we’re tennis players, no? Our presence on the courts is determined by teamwork. We have coaches and family members and partners making us who we want to be, yes? People who work as hard as we do, to make sure that everything is for the best.”

“So... you’re saying I should be a doubles specialist?”

“Noooo? I’m saying that just as how we can’t do everything as tennis players, you can’t do that as well as all this planning.”

“The Amalfi Coast is too much, isn’t it?”

Marcelo thought of the treacherous yet stunning views, pastel coloured buildings, softened. Sighed. “No, it’s enough.”

“And the _Pastiera Napoletana_?”

“I---” hadn’t gotten around to tasting it as yet, Marcelo wanted to say. But opted for, “Great mouthfeel.”

“You’re allergic to hazelnut,” Alex said, easily shredding Marcelo’s lie. “This is why I need to be on top of _everything_.”

“And your ranking?”

Alex shrugged, an easy movement of shoulders against the sofa he was sprawled across. “It will live.”

***

Alex was right, his ranking lived; as he put his best foot, two handed backhand and accurate follow through forward.

 **“Is Zverev best of the Next Gens?”** headlines screamed over articles, hyperlinks to positions for and against. 

Marcelo also having a good form at the minute, doubles, mixed doubles. Winning, winning, winning. Their day was coming up, a great one. 

The winningest one of all. 

They were getting married on the Amalfi coast. A moment carved out of the onslaught of their season. The quiet time, after the thrills and spills of the Grand Slam and Master Series, but before the end of this year’s tour, the last of them being the Nitto ATP finals.

Everything booked, including them. 

“It’s perfect,” Marcelo agreed, as they walked through the hotel, marble floors underneath, 270 degrees of sea and sky. The buildings in the rugged mountains seemingly shoved against and on top of one another, like a disorganised box of pastel coloured legos. 

“We have everything,” Alex chirped. “Never mind those crap matches, or whatever. Everything is sorted, because I’m amazing, see?”

“You’re something, alright,” Marcelo agreed, lifting his eyes up to the high, arched ceiling with its crystal chandelier refracting the light from the sun and blasting the room with its amplified glow like starbursts. 

“I know you’re overwhelmed,” Alex grinned, spreading his arms wide. “All of this,” he gestured towards his body, “with this--” a tap at his temple with his index finger. “A little organisation-” finger guns in Marcelo’s direction. “And everything’s awesome. _Awesome_.”

“I am ... awesomed by you, yes,” Marcelo agreed. 

And Marcelo had been, really. 

Thinking about how Alex had come through various matches with dips in form. How he’d reached for -sought and clicked - into another gear. His lanky frame and height, along with footwork and strength and technique knitting together like a machine. How out of all the Next Gen singles stars coming through, Alex shone the brightest, pushed at the older tennis gods the most; inching Federer and Nadal and Djokovic into zones of subduction. 

When the Next Gen and the old guard brushed up against each other, earthquakes happened. Earthquakes were happening all around, with tennis absorbing the shocks ranging from thrill to ill grace. 

As a doubles’ player, Marcelo was satisfied with his lot. Content to be on the sidelines, as it were, watching as Alexander Zverev come into his own. Russian background, German upbringing, and the rest all him - weird and sarcastic at turns, but zen as a rock garden when it mattered. 

These were the warm thoughts that filtered through his brain as he thumbed at the excel sheet distractedly. Which is why he didn’t see the odd numbers in the white space at first. His eyes narrowing when he noticed something was amiss. Like... a serve that fell well short before the line, or a shot that went _way_ past. 

“ _Merda_ ,” he cursed, causing his half chewed antipasto to go down the wrong way.

***

“We have no suits,” Marcelo confided in Misha after dinner, because why not? A problem shared is a problem halved, he’d read once. So half of none was... he thought, frowning.

Still none. 

Zero made everything multiplied or divided by itself to be zero. 

Marcelo and Misha spent the time huddled together, because Alex had a Zoom conference call with one of his sponsors. 

The grounds rolling, the gardens a typical Amalfi seaside coast garden. The lush verdant surroundings done with the fussiness of the British influence. Umbrella pines over head, seasonal flowers in flowerbed cut outs. Normally, the surroundings seduced and soothed, but not today. 

“Does Sascha know?” Misha asked, before holding up his hand. “Forget I asked. We would have have known soon enough.”

“What to do, eh? Our ceremony is in two days, and Alex is ---”

“Smug, eh?” Misha laughed, with the glee of an older sibling at the shit his younger sibling had stumbled into. 

Loyalty to his friend and fiancee made Marcelo hold his tongue. But he nodded.

“Well, you’ll have to tell him,” Mischa patted Marcelo’s shoulder. “You can also suggest things too.”

“Like?”

“I dunno. His and his matching pajamas?”

“Misha!”

“It’s a thought.”

***

Now.

Alex sat on the side of the bed, face uncomfortably pale. 

“I’d thought of everything,” he huffed. “Pet passports for mum’s dogs, gluten and dairy free cakes for those who can’t have a piece of our cake. Goody bags from sponsors... _everything_. I even got Meute. Do you know how hard they were to book?”

_Except for the suits_ , the statement unsaid, but _there_.

Marcelo threw himself on the bed, sprawled across it like a starfish. Looked up at the ceiling. In their master suite, oversized gilt edged drawings of flora spread across the ceiling, as if the gardens had crept and curled from outside. 

“Alex,” he patted the space beside him. Didn’t need to say ‘come’, as Alex lay curled up beside him, like a cat in front of a furnace. 

“I won’t say that the details aren’t important,”he started, stroking the thick pelt of Alex’s hair. “I know that they are, and you’ve done it all, but--”

“I should have been a doubles specialist,” Alex’s breath a gust of humid air against the column of Marcelo’s neck. Warm and heavy enough that it felt like a kiss. 

“Never,” Marcelo slapped that point away easily. “You have the means to be great, and you’d never share the spotlight.”

“Gahhh, you know what I mean. I should have handed it over to you, or a wedding planner. Like you say, there are people who do such things.”

Marcelo’s fingers idly stroking the bony curve of Alex’s shoulder. Alex at the age where he finally stopped shooting up, and now starting to fill out. 

“But it wouldn’t have been you,” Marcelo murmured, the weight of everything hitting him all at once. “You arguing about details, and...” his lips tugged into a smile. “ _Mouthfeel_. It’s important to you, and you’re important to me, Alex -” he broke off, dragged his gaze from the ceiling to the face that he truly loved. 

“Everything else is... nothing.”

“You got that right,” Alex quipped. “We could walk around naked and tell everyone that’s a new suit. I can see the _Hello_ article, now, _The Emperors’ New Clotheses._ ”

“Uhh...” Marcelo started. Trying to be thoughtful, really, but had to laugh. Alex _would_. 

“We’ll work something out,” he promised. He hoped.

***

Winter morning came to the Amalfi Coast like it always did.

With style.

Even at this time of year, the sky a gift of unerring blue. Sun bright with promise, but not scorching. Everyone - their nearest, and dearest - floating and tripping through the gardens in all their finery. The air tinged with the harmony of harp and the brush of bows against strings. 

Everything was epic, Marcelo had to admit, glimpsing the Infinity Terrace opening up to the azure seas. White umbrellas dotting along the view like lace doilies on the sea. From their vantage point, everyone was there, and clothed, except them. 

“We should probably wear some sort of underwear,” Marcelo said, wondering if Alex was taking this _The Emperors’ New Clotheses_ a bit _too_ far. Both of them naked as jaybirds. Alex all chestnut blonde and dolphin smooth. Marcelo hoped that there wouldn’t be any helicopters flying overhead, and that they would get in before the sun’s rays sharpened. No one needed sunburns on their ... you know. 

"An idea,” Alex suggested, with a snap of his fingers. “His and his Adidas shell suits.”

“This isn't a Spon con,” Marcelo retorted in rare disapproval. “Besides, Adidas isn’t my sponsor.”

“You’ve never had a problem wearing my clothes befor--” 

A sharp knock at the door cut off the rest of Alex’s statement. 

Rolling his eyes, muttering about how _great_ his idea was, Alex turned away with his long, lanky stride, bounded to the door in three steps. Threw open the door with a flourish just to see ---

“Suits?” he asked, noting the two garment bags held up before his --- 

“Mischa?”

“Short notice,” Mischa handed over the garment bags to his brother. “I thought I’d call in a few favours from a shop up the road. You know before things got--” he peered past his brother’s shoulder. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he pressed his now freed hands against his eyes. 

“Desperate.”

“Hey, Mischa!” Marcelo waved brightly, “nice to see you.”

“I wish I could unsee that much of you. Both of you.” shaking his head, Mischa willed himself to push that image _away_. “I hope these fit,” he said to Alex. “I just went by the measurements on your excel sheet.”

“Mischa--” Alex lifted his eyes to his brother. And for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t sarcasm that flooded his voice, but gratitude. “I-- don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, I do,” Mischa replied helpfully and a bit too quickly. “You’ll say, ‘Thank you, Mischa’ and, ‘We’ll put these on. Along with some underwear.’”

***

And they did, and in front of everyone and Alex’s mum’s dogs they exchanged their vows, and everything was perfect.

“Because you have to be organised,” Alex grinned, loopy and drunk from good German beer. 

“Oh?” Marcelo’s eyebrows winged up. The sun long set, the lights a mixture of lantern, fairy and recessed, all in varying lustre that made their surrounds all aglow. Alex’s arm around Marcelo’s neck, his mouth near enough to smell the beer on his new husband’s breath. 

“And,” Alex placed his other hand over his mouth to muffle a burp. “Have a brother like Mischa. For him to go to Florence ---” _a shop up the road_ for our suits is amazing.”

“But you had the measurements in the spreadsheet,” Marcelo piped up.

“Yessss,” Alex nodded ponderously, on his amazingness more drunk than sober, Marcelo knew. “I’m amazing.”

“You... might be,” Marcelo agreed, tightening his arms around Alex as the brass for Meute’s rendition of _You and Me_ kicked in. The well known notes making the air tremble around them. The second wave of notes causing people to scream and laugh in happiness. 

A kiss, and another one, spinning out into forever as confetti rained around them, turning their immediate surroundings to foil and eco certified glitter. 

“You just might be.”

Fin

[[Band referred to in passing in the fic; Meute is a relatively popular German instrumental band]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKFbnhcNnjE)

[A/N: Happy Holidays Sari! *throws around eco approved confetti everywhere*]

**Author's Note:**

> [Podfic available here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760248)


End file.
